shined appealingly. It was so deep,
that a ship was used for imagery.
The northbound lane
was reserved for dogs. It led
upstate to a meadow.
The superblooming meadow
was invisible. It sent out signals,
many people scratched their eyes.
The woodtick dangles into empty space.
It waits for a total eclipse, and traverses the
surface in search of tenderness.
The woodtick is infamous for
its removable head. It is blind, too,
entering completely into the shaded image.
The illusionist, for love of money,
put a nickel in his body on the TV.
It pushed like traffic up his artery.
The choice is wagered between
obsession and penetration. It comes down
to one's love for the game.
The meadow fostered a noncommittal space
for anti-aging activists. Its one flexible rule
concerned the weather.
The field bifurcated at the change
in weather. It resembled the word
"field," having blinded those who read it.
The two new words obscured the fleeting
game. It was like the most deranging
game, it was like the cough that empties lungs.
The cousin had an extra muscle.
It allowed his eyes
to disagree.
The one engrossing clothing
is the scary dream. It is anchored by a
cryptic cry, the whole not open to immersion.
The whole meadow at once is a gagging
block, the silence of its name. It fills the
air with paste and dampens every cord.
The cousin's panorama differs
his ability. It is not the way
to gaze at the horizon.
The gleaming meadows are a brick tower
fortifying ever in the celestial tangent bundle.
It is puerile counsel: to track the meadow sequence.
The one remaining eye looks through a narrow tube and in
the pattern of the granite sees a woman's hooded face. It is a
scary moment—worldless—among the enigmatic sequence.
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